Cloak and Dagger
by hiding duh
Summary: Silas, implied Jack/David. Not even Silas prepared for this.


Show, please stop killing so many animals.

**Title**: Cloak and Dagger  
**Fandom**: Kings  
**Characters/Pairings**: Silas, implied Jack/David  
**Summary**: Not even Silas prepared for this.  
**Rating**: PG  
**Spoilers**: Through 1x3. Speculation for upcoming episodes based on... um, Bible spoilers.  
**Word Count**: 1300  
**Notes**: Started writing this before tonight's episode, and then I got distracted with the possibilities. Takes place after the failed assassination attempt.

* * *

Silas has had bad days before.

He has started wars, ruined kings, and stolen his children back from the clutches of death. He's dealt—and continues to deal—with: a gay heir, a barren daughter, and a dying son. He has been punished, saved, and abandoned by God, but he has not prepared for _this_.

"Sir, with all due respect—" David says, mouth twisting, "I don't think this is a good—"

"I've never had a bad idea in my life," Jack growls. He tucks himself into a corner like a child, back hunched, arms crossed. "So, what's it gonna be?"

Silas steels his features. Sunlight shines upon him through the arches and he squints.

So. His son wants the boy around. Silas would rather not ponder on the whys. Instead, he steeples his fingers and slowly levels his gaze with David's. "I'll allow it."

Jack's smile is hesitant, but his eyes speak of triumph. "Good. Let's go."

David pauses, a small frown drawing his eyebrows together. "Sir, I have to object." His shoulders straighten and if Silas weren't sure some camera somewhere is filming this, he'd roll his eyes. "I can't, in good conscience, risk the prince's life—"

"I'm returning the favor, Shepherd," Jack smirks. He cocks a smug eyebrow and adds, "You saved the prince." Casually, he inspects his nails. "Now the prince will... try to save you."

David's expression is uncertain and his posture is rigid, but he inclines his head obediently and says, "Yes, sir."

Jack's shoulders relax enough for Silas to notice.

"It would certainly be an embarrassment," Silas begins, reclining in his cold chair, "should the hero of Gilboa perish while at court." He nods a little, eyelids drooping suggestively. "Jack. Do your best."

"Sir," David tries again. He doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands, and Silas finds his awkward posture somewhat endearing. But he's seen the butterflies touch David. He has no time for _endearing_.

"You're excused."

David briefly glances at Jack, then shuffles toward the heavy oak door. It is Rose's pride and joy, and the boy treats it as such.

"Son," Silas calls, voice a warm warning.

Jack freezes. Balls up his fists, his back to Silas. The door closes behind David, and Jack can't escape this.

"What are you doing?"

Jack inhales. Exhales. Turns around. "I could ask you the same thing."

Silas rises. "I know what you want, son."

"And I know it was you," Jack cautions, eyes narrowing. "Gath wouldn't try to kill the guy. Gath likes him. _Gath_ likes him."

"I'm aware," Silas admits, gaze steady.

Jack falters, looks away.

"He's mine to destroy," he tells the floor. "Don't interfere. Just this once, let me win."

Silas stares for a moment.

There is a treasury to maintain. A peace to preserve. A demanding reverend, a displeased wife, and a silent God. Silas can deny them all.

But he cannot deny his son.

"Harming the boy," he says anyway, clasping Jack's shoulder, "would be an act of treason."

Jack looks up, teeth bared, eyes glistening.

"I will _ruin_ him," he promises.

Silas' hand drops to his side. "I'm sure you will, son."

*

Jack likes attention.

But David has been waiting for him, and he doesn't know _anything_, so Jack composes himself quickly. Arranges his face into cheerful nonchalance and says, "Ready to party with the big boys?"

The door closes behind him, obscuring his father's silhouette.

David studies him for a moment, appropriately suspicious. "I don't think partying is going to keep me from dying."

Jack smirks, eyes darting to David's lips. "It'll keep you from dying of boredom."

David is easy, Jack finds. A couple drinks, a pretty girl, a visit from his boys, and he's ready to listen to Jack.

David is naive and good and Jack can't stand him.

There is nothing special about him. And Jack will prove it.

"Take care of him," he drawls. The girls exchange knowing glances. He slips them some cash, and leans back to watch.

The girls are quick. One drapes herself across David's knee; the other sidles up to him with a predatory smile.

The cameras are everywhere, Jack knows. So he's careful. Incredibly cautious and restrained. He ignores the looks he gets, dismisses the ache spreading down his thighs, and—

"Are you a _child_?" he snaps, striding over to David.

David blinks in surprise. "What?"

"They're not here to _talk_ to you," Jack glares. His focus slips a little. He glances at David's lips. Licks his own. "Hurry up and take them."

David's brows draw together. He gives Jack an almost shrewd look. "No."

Taken aback, Jack tilts his head. "Consider it an order from your future king."

"You're not king yet."

The girls glance at each other apprehensively, then quietly scuttle off.

Jack barely notices. "That's right," he replies, his blood boiling, "but I _will_ be."

David turns on his barstool, hand wrapping around a glass. "When you are king," he says patiently, "I will obey your every word." He downs his drink, glancing at Jack out of the corner of his eye. "Until then..."

Jack is going to stop staring at David's lips. Any second now.

Silently, he takes a seat next to David.

He can't wait to be king.

*

Thomasina hates this part.

"No one has seen these, I presume?" the queen asks calmly.

"Ma'am," Thomasina nods, standing by her side on the sunlit balcony.

The queen casts another glance at the photographs, long fingers flipping through shot after shot with the kind of calculated pride that makes Thomasina uneasy. "These two."

Thomasina accepts the photographs without a word.

"I trust my son cannot be identified in these," the queen continues curtly. "Captain Shepherd, on the other hand..."

"There is a slight chance—" Thomasina warns.

The queen touches Thomasina's cheek softly, mouth quirking. "One cannot simultaneously prevent and prepare for war," she quotes, voice steady.

Unless you are the queen, Thomasina thinks, but says: "Your daughter—"

"Will be devastated," the queen sighs, waving one thin wrist. "She'll get over it. Publish the pictures."

Thomasina accedes.

*

Silas hasn't prepared for this.

"You would be surprised by what pleases God," Samuels tells him, the corners of his lips tugging upwards. "And the people of Gilboa."

"Do not speak to me of pleasing God, Reverend," Silas growls, slamming his palms against the newspaper.

He's expected derogatory headlines. Outrage. Hate. Not _this_.

"The people are ready for a change," Samuels offers. "They're ready for... minor imperfections."

The pictures are taunting Silas. He would recognize that back anywhere. "You've had me hide _mine_."

Samuels tents his fingers as if in prayer. "God does not want you to hide, Silas."

Silas collapses into his chair. Samuels exits the chambers like a ghost, but his presence lingers.

There is still a treasury to maintain. A peace to preserve. A demanding reverend, a displeased wife, and a silent God. Silas has no time to deal with a boy God has made untouchable.

On that note, he decides, he really should go and congratulate his son on his failure.


End file.
